


Epilogue

by wubghost



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adoption, Blood, Multi, Reincarnation, messing up both good omens and biblical canon, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wubghost/pseuds/wubghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The date of the apocalypse wasn't chosen arbitrarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

_Knock knock knock._

“Can you get that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked mildly as he flipped another page of a dusty book on the verge of disintegration1. Physics fought a valiant battle against angelic intent, tried to dictate that his voice was too soft to carry to the living room, especially past the low sounds of Crowley crooning devilish nothings to the terrified plants, but it really was an unbalanced fight. Aziraphale’s words were meant for Crowley, and so Crowley heard.

Aziraphale, unaware of the dispute he’d instigated, turned another page.

\---

1 By all rights, it should’ve fallen apart centuries ago, but Aziraphale never considered the fact that his books might need restoration or upkeep, and so they stubbornly remained book-shaped and readable. This was another source of contention between physics and angelic intent. Sometimes angelic intent considered letting physics win, because really, it sort of pitied the poor fool who insisted on pushing back despite its sound defeat ever since, oh, the dawn of time.

\---

“I’m busy!”

_Knock knock knock knock knock._

Crowley breathed out an irritated sigh that sounded more like a hiss and dropped the plant mister beside the trembling dieffenbachia. “I’m not done with you yet,” he warned before he turned and stalked toward the door. The South Downs wasn’t a bad place, really, but the neighbours were so _neighbourly_ , and whenever he tried to impress the fact that they weren’t to be bothered, Aziraphale always found a way to thwart him2. Crowley didn’t know why the angel bothered; it’s not like they had to attend to their previous duties anymore. Apparently, old habits die hard.

He opened the door, and the sharp retort he was about to deliver to whichever poor soul saw fit to disturb his peace3 immediately shoved its way back down his throat and curled up in a fetal position in the vicinity of his stomach.

\---

2 Most of said thwarting consisted of a disapproving look. Maybe two disapproving looks, if Crowley had been extra devious.

3 The plants would disagree.

\---

He closed the door. The locks immediately clicked shut, along with five more locks that were very surprised to find themselves at this particular door, including two large deadbolts thicker than Crowley’s arm, and a cylinder block with two anvils stacked on it, just for good measure.

“Hey!” A feminine voice yelled from the other side of the door, petulant and annoyed.

“Crowley?”Aziraphale’s puzzled voice drifted from the kitchen as he finally dragged himself away from his blessed book.

Crowley stared at the door. He continued to stare as he slowly backed away, like the other side contained a ticking bomb, which wasn’t a very apt comparison considering bombs would make him vaguely irritated at most. “No,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale’s voice was closer now, laced with a slight undercurrent of concern.

“No,” Crowley repeated, and turned his back.

The extraneous locks vanished, and the door swung open.

 _“Hey,”_ the girl repeated, arms crossed under what at first seemed like two small balloons but on closer inspection turned out to be large breasts. Bubblegum pink lips that took up half of her face were pursed in a pout. She looked less like a human and more like a stereotype brought to life for the older generation to disapprove of, all orange spray tan and skimpy clothes and bleached blonde hair that fell to her waist in obviously artificial waves, a disconcerting gash against the backdrop of reality. Which made sense, as she wasn’t human.

Michael, leader of the Host, the right hand of God4, first among equals, His only begotten son, seemed to share the same sense of humour as War5. No human would look at her and see a warrior, but no ethereal being could miss the gunmetal grey of her eyes, the sharp curl of her delicate fingers that could master any weapon known and unknown to man. This close, Aziraphale could almost taste the power that curled beneath her corporation, a vast reservoir shivering with potential.

 _Ah,_ Aziraphale thought, and cast an anxious glance toward Crowley.

\---

4 Metatron was his left.

5 A shitty one.6

6 Which made sense, seeing as War was technically his daughter. Or her daughter. The first war was against Satan and all, etc, etc. Most ethereal (and occult) beings tried very, very hard to not think about it.

\---

Crowley returned Aziraphale’s helpless look, eyes wide behind the shades he’d hastily miracled on. He’d gone curiously still, muscles tight with tension, a rattlesnake about to shake its tail and bare its fangs. It was roughly equivalent to a kitten threatening a grizzly bear.

Michael didn’t seem perturbed. She just stood there and glared at Crowley, not like a leader sent down to punish but like a child mad at their sibling for stealing the last slice of cake. “That’s so rude! I can’t believe you did that. I haven’t seen you in decades, and this is how you greet me?”

“Ngk,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale suddenly didn’t know what was going on.

*

Five years ago, a woman stumbled through the sands of a war-torn country under the relentless glare of the midday sun, both hands wrapped around her bulging belly. She took one step, then two, and abruptly collapsed without the strength to even grunt in pain. With the last of her feeble energy, she curled around her stomach, closed her eyes in a vain attempt to ward off the contractions that her body shouldn’t have enough stamina to produce, and wept dry tears for the death of her and her soon to be born child.

Red stained the white sands and turned brown in seconds, moisture sucked away by the thirsty ground. War squinted at the harsh light, briefly discombobulated, unused to the body of an infant. And then she threw her head back and laughed, bright and clear in the still air. The vultures that had eagerly descended on her mortal mother’s corpse started at the sound of her voice and scattered back into the sky.

Still smiling, War silenced her screaming body with a thought, got up, and started walking.

*

Five years ago, a boy was born in Southern China, white hair, white skin, red eyes. His parents gradually wasted away and quietly died on his second birthday from what will later be discovered to be radiation poisoning from a nearby power plant. Miraculously, he was unaffected.

The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of the village, a pale blot in a crowd of brown skin and black hair. Though he looked sickly, he was never sick, and the fervent joy in his eyes as he stared at the always-hazy air was disconcerting _. A ghost_ , they whispered, _a ghost in human form,_ and though they made no attempts to ostracize him, they never tried to include him, either. Not that Pollution minded.

Eventually, the village, along with twelve others, was finally evacuated under international pressure. It wasn’t until after they left that they realized he was nowhere to be found. A few weeks later, he’d slipped completely from their memories.

*

Five years ago, America celebrated the birth of a favourite celebrity couple’s son. Charismatic even as a baby, it took no time for him to become the apple of the nation’s eye.

Months after his birth, his mother still hadn’t lost the weight she’d gained during her pregnancy; if anything, she seemed to gain _more,_ no matter what diet she tried or how much she exercised. Tragedy struck in his tenth month when she collapsed on the front steps of their mansion, too little food in too many days. Three days later, she died in the hospital, plump and malnourished. In his grief, her husband threw himself into his work, neglected his body’s needs, and eventually overdosed on heroin, thin and filthy and skeletal.

Their kid was sent overseas to live with some relatives. _Poor kid,_ the world murmured, _having lost both parents to such tragic circumstances._ There were worries he’d go down the same path; he’d always been small, and no matter how much his stepfamily forced him to eat, he never seemed to get any bigger. The world whispered, and comforted, and cajoled, and Famine only smiled, feigned ignorance, and waited.

*

One week ago, Thomas and Deirdre Young adopt and orphaned child. _Five years old and already an orphan, that poor thing,_ Adam’s mother had told him. _He’s such a sweet dear, you two would get along splendid._

Adam took one look at his new sibling and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh no,” he said. “Not you again.”

DEATH shrugged apologetically. SORRY.

**Author's Note:**

> Are ya'll ready for this journey wherein I completely screw up Good Omens canon and commit blasphemy in at least three religions? I'm not.


End file.
